


coney island

by thesurielships



Series: evermore [6]
Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: Angst, F/M, Magicians, and the night circus, basically a night circus au, inspired by coney island
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-05
Updated: 2021-01-05
Packaged: 2021-03-16 05:27:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,085
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28576722
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesurielships/pseuds/thesurielships
Summary: And I'm sitting on a bench in Coney IslandWondering, "Where did my baby go?"The fast times, the bright lights, the merry-goSorry for not making you my centerfold
Relationships: Feyre Archeron & Rhysand, Feyre Archeron/Rhysand
Series: evermore [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2058630
Comments: 4
Kudos: 19





	coney island

**Author's Note:**

> this is not as true to the song as the others. this is also inspired by The Night Circus (which i’m currently reading, so no spoilers!), but you don’t need to have read the book to read this. enjoy!

The setting sun paints the remnants of Coney Island a bloody red.

Feyre trails through the brightly colored pathways, her only companion a gentle breeze that tickles her face and nudges her legs forward.

She walks past The Wheel of Space, a pitch black carrousel that used to shoot into the sky before swooping down into a pool of starlight, performing its mechanical dance to the cheers of its occupants. The shiny paint is now chipped in places, revealing rusted iron and forgotten dreams.

Feyre’s nostrils tingle with memory as she enters The Corn Maze, her not so secret refuge after taxing performances. The greying trees are but a husk of their golden splendor. They used to provide ample cover from prying eyes, and the fruit they grew was her favorite treat. She smiles, wondering how they ever managed to grow popcorn on trees, but they did. The sweet and salty perfume of all kinds of flavors of popcorn intertwined still haunts her dreams.

She ventures deeper into the circus, her steps growing lighter and her heart heavier.

There is the contortionist’s stand, a tiny platform on which Mor bedazzled every passing visitor. She wonders if her friend still squeezes herself into whatever cardboard box she can find. If she still performs, after it all fell apart.

Cassian’s tent, the Fire Breather, is cold against her fingers. Feyre is reminded of the first time she attempted to touch it, afraid of the flames shrouding it. Rhysand had laughed in her ear, drunk on mulled wine and the glory of their performance, and Cassian had goaded her just enough to make her reckless. The fire didn’t burn, and her friends laughed harder at her bewilderment.

The last rays of the day’s sun gild the Shadowsinger in bright crimson, the wisps of shadow forever cloaking it having long dissolved into the night.

Dusk looms closer. The gentle breeze gets colder and more insistent.

Feyre hurries her steps. She doesn’t pause near the Fortune Teller’s tent, and she can see Amren disapprovingly clicking her tongue. _You probably foresaw all of this anyway, you old hag_ , she thinks to herself.

And there it is; the main attraction of the circus, the pride and joy of Coney Island.

The Illusionist and the Acrobat.

Suddenly, Feyre is no longer on her feet, in the deserted ruins of a circus. She is twirling in the air, into Rhysand’s arms, before turning into a dove and crying as she soars above the roaring audience. She flies to the apex of the massive tent, takes a second to enjoy the rapture on the crowd’s face, before she falls back into her body and plummets. Some people gasp, some scream, but Feyre vanishes before she hits the ground. Rhys presses a brief kiss to her brow before the lights swivel and the audience sees them.

They bow, roses landing at their feet.

Feyre’s smile is wide and euphoric. There is nothing like the afterglow of a performance for her.

Rhysand’s smile grows a little sadder each act. Sorrow creeps into his eyes and slowly dims their light.

Feyre gently spools herself back to the present. She sits on a bench, her back to their tent, and breathes deeply. The air smells like the sea, not like bonfire and burnt sugar and the colorful powder each performer covered themselves with. She finds that she hates the smell.

“Looking for me, darling?”

She glances to her right, a translucent form slowly coming to life as the sun disappears into the rippling waves.

“Long time no see, Rhysand.”

The sky darkens. The stars twinkle to life one by one.

“You ghost me for forty nine years and you start calling me Rhysand?”

“That’s rich, coming from a literal ghost.”

He snorts, and finally those violet eyes fall on her. Her breath gets stuck in her throat. She has traveled the world, performed for thousands of audiences, received innumerable compliments and criticisms. Yet, no one has ever looked at her the way he does. He regards her with such intensity that she can only lay herself bare to his gaze. His smirk drops, replaced by a sad smile.

“At least I get to be immortal.”

“Fun.”

He shakes his head slightly, and his eyes go back to the night sky. His body shimmers in the moonlight, diaphanous and luminous and as ethereal as she has always perceived him.

“You could have come with me,” she says quietly.

She knows what he’s about to say before he says it.

“I was sick of pretending.”

Indeed, passing his magic for clever tricks eventually wore him down. She noticed it, but was happy to pretend she didn’t see it, too reluctant to give up the glory of being a renowned acrobat. And when he surrendered the stage, and she soaked up enough magic of her own, she left.

“When did you start fading?”

“Playing dumb doesn’t suit you, Feyre darling.”

She bit her lip, no longer able to escape what she realized decades ago.

Magicians do not die. As long as they’re tied to something tangible, they remain, beautiful and otherworldly and unencumbered by age. The moment they lose their ties, they fade into nothingness.

Folklore says that magicians come from the void. Feyre is not sure if that’s true, but to the void they return, nonetheless.

The question of why he tied himself to her is on the tip of her tongue, but she swallows it.

“I loved you, too,” she confesses instead.

A cloud passes overhead, briefly obscuring the moon. Rhysand stands before her, as corporeal and real as she left him.

She blinks, and light shines through his chest, his hands, the mess of hair on his head.

“I know.”

A lump settles in her throat. She doesn’t know when she will have the courage to come here again, whether she ever will.

“What happens when the circus is destroyed?”

He shrugs, his expression peaceful at the prospect of losing his last tie to this world.

He’s content, she realizes with a jolt. He is a ghost of the revolutionary magician that he was, haunting a graveyard of dreams long dead. Yet he is as true to himself as he’s ever been.

He’s not hiding anymore.

Tears spring to her eyes and she blinks them away.

She stays on that bench the entire night, watching the sky until the stars retreat one after the other, and the new day’s sun emerges.

She doesn’t leave until Rhysand is completely gone.


End file.
